Football players are assholes. I know; I'm related to their king. My older, and annoyingly overprotective, brother Jake is the star quarterback at Santa Cruz High School. I love him but hate living in his shadow. Everyone worshiping the air he breat...
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The left side of my face throbbed in hot pain. I removed my helmet, and my cheek and nose winced as I blinked. "Sorry, Coach. It's getting worse."
"Ice pack! Hang in there." He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder and waved the trainer over. "We need all you can give. Find whatever motivation you have left in there and embrace it."
Motivation? Josh sat with his head bent low. Like he felt my eyes on him, his head lifted and anger burned in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to put his fist through a wall. Tonight hadn't been his night, and I was to blame. "Josh." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Don't worry. I've got you. Line up on the left next time."
"But your eye?"
"I got you," was all I needed to say.
Both defenses tired earlier in the second half. Defensive breakdowns made games more exciting for me, but Santa Cruz's grind-it-out offense punished our linemen. We moved the ball well, but so did Santa Cruz. We went back and forth during the second half. They chewed apart the clock with a vengeance and scored with one minute left in the fourth quarter. Harrison tied me in points by getting his own rushing touchdown, and, one extra point kicked later, they took a seven-point lead.
Plenty of time. "Josh, ready to go long?" His helmet nodded in my peripheral vision.
"Landon, your arm ready?" My running back, who probably hadn't thrown an in-game pass in two years, gulped with paler cheeks and glazed-over eyes.
I clapped and grinned around the huddle. "Let's give 'em something to talk about all week."
We broke for a flea-flicker, my favorite play. The defensive line bought our fake run setup and gathered across from Cole and Collins. I tossed the ball back to Landon, who ran laterally like a run play, but then he stalled. Josh took off in a herd with my other receivers. His corner collapsed to the line of scrimmage, thinking it was a run defense, so Josh tore down to break past the outside linebacker.
As planned, Landon chucked the ball back to me. Rough leather pressed into the pads of my fingers. I pitched the pigskin down to Josh like we were eight again, playing catch. Thirty-two yards later, he did the rest. Easy six.
My fist was half-raised to pump the air when a freight train slammed into my chest. By the 'bitch-boy!' slurs screamed in my face, one of Santa Cruz's defensive ends didn't like being schooled. The field tipped away into the overhead white lights. I expelled all the air in my lungs in a whoosh and grunted when the ground slammed into my back. I landed flat with my arms and legs spread like I drew turf angels. If that wasn't enough, a bulky weight landed on top of me, then another player and another until a heavy, sweaty, grunting pile compacted me into the turf.
Curses, kicks, and hand grabs blurred above me. Were those stars? I squinted. Those were stars above the lights. Breathing was a chore, and I wheezed from my compressed lungs. A dull pain vibrated on my right side. I'd given up feeling the left side of my face by the end of the third quarter, but the groin cup punch wasn't necessary. A few breaths later, the crushing weight lifted one by one. I sat up in a quiet, still stadium and clutched my chest.
